That Strained Smile
by DLHKM
Summary: What happened to the meek boy with the gentle smile who never told any lies? 'He died.' Matthew thinks, forcing a laugh after his friend tells a joke, 'He withered away and died.' Warnings: Depression, self harm, mentions of rape.


**A/N: Here's another one, kids. This is a very different piece that I wrote as an attempt to correctly portray depression; I hope that it turned out well.**

**Spring Break just began and I am _so _thrilled: I'm _finally_ getting a break! Except for the fact that I'm not: I have to complete a reading guide for AP European History. **

**Ugh, bad times.**

**At least I'm going to go see the Hunger Games (what _up_!).**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

**Warnings: Depression, self-harm, mentions of rape.**

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><p><em>'Look at me, look at me, see me, see me.' <em>

Matthew's eyes dart around the room wildly, flitting across the faces of those who accompany him with the sort of apprehension seen by those who are caged in some sort of inescapable prison. A pleasant smile has been painted on, fooling everyone around him into believing that all is well, but if _anyone_ bothered to question his happiness, if _anyone_ took a moment to consider his sincerity, they would take notice of the expression's fragility.

No one can see beyond his mask.

And perhaps that's the worst part of it: he's surrounded by several of the people who are _supposed_ to know him best, his closest friends, but they have no idea just how _broken _he is. They don't see the strained quality to his expression, they don't ever catch the moments when his façade slips and that horribly lost look is evident on his face, they don't question the long sleeves.

He wishes that they would: he wishes that they would pause for a moment and realize how unhappy he is, he wishes that they would see it and _help_ him, he wishes that they would cut away the sleeves and see the scars.

They're long and jagged, pink or red (the more recent) lines that mar the skin of his forearms, and Matthew feels incredibly ashamed, well aware of what he has been reduced to-but it's not like he can stop.

He's powerless, really.

The anxiety creeps up on him, powerful and suffocating, and envelops him in a chokehold that Matthew can never break without injuring himself; he would do _anything_ to rid himself of the feeling, and it seems as if pain is the only solution. He tried to resist at first, tried to tell himself that self-harm was an awful thing, that it would do nothing to help him, but he failed: the urges to scream, to cry, to laugh hysterically were getting too strong, and nothing but raking his nails roughly down his arms seemed to help.

He succumbed to depression and began to hurt himself, just as any other broken, scarred person would; what is wrong with him? When did everything go wrong? What happened to the meek boy with the gentle smile who never told any lies?

_'He died.'_ Matthew thinks, forcing a laugh after his friend tells a joke, _'He withered away and died.'_

His self-confidence was torn to shreds by his demanding father, his self-esteem was decimated by the children at school, his innocence was taken by the man in the alleyway.

That _dark_ man in that _dark_ alleyway who yanked Matthew by the arm into the secluded passage, covering the blond's mouth with one hand as he dragged the struggling teen into the shadows; perhaps _he_ killed the old Matthew.

He murdered Matthew with his cruel words and his lingering touches and his rough thrusts; he ruined the violet-eyed teen, he extinguished the light in his eyes.

But Matthew shouldn't have allowed his mind to wander in that direction, he shouldn't have permitted those memories to resurface; the tightening in his chest alerts him that this will be a serious bout of anxiety.

One of his companions asks Matthew if he would like some ice cream and the blond shakes his head silently, answering with a sweet "No, thank you." Regardless of the fact that all he wants to do is shout, Matthew cannot let his true feelings show, he cannot reveal his issues to the world, he cannot disclose his secrets.

Not to anyone, not ever, because that would change things (_like they haven't already been changed)_.

People would never see him in the same light: he would always be "that depressed guy" or "that freak" or "that victim". They would tiptoe around him, they would treat him as an invalid, they would be unable to act normally; Matthew doesn't want that.

He just wants things to be normal.

Not for him, no, because normalcy will never be an option for him after everything that he has endured, but for the people that he knows, because Matthew has always been selfless; he has always put others before himself.

Or maybe he's selfish.

Matthew is afraid of the reactions that a confession would get: he doesn't want to face disbelief, he doesn't want to be ostracized, he detests the idea of being treated differently because of everything he's been through.

He doesn't want to talk about what happened in that dark, _dark_ alleyway.

His fists are clenched now, so tightly that blood is beginning to seep through his fingers, but he continues to smile, continues to laugh, continues to pretend.

No one can tell how much of a liar he is.

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><p><strong>AN:** **That's all; please review.**

**Until next time!**


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